A soft, silent shower covered Jinghai town. Mist curling into graceful hands left behind a lingering caress over the mountain peaks. These mysterious mountains stretching farther down towards north of Jinghai, stood mightily – as sturdy as soldiers overrun with a high-tide of powerful enemies - brave yet forthright. Quite alike in their forbearance, the overbearing mountains stood rooted overrun in the rushing waves of clouds and raining mist. Peaks after peaks were shadowed in the misty clouds and foggy screens, and murky downpour lingered further on, as if noting a silent plea of summer's end.

It was the ninth month of the new year; after three more the year would end. No festivity, no new remarkable gatherings. The town at this time of the year had fallen into a slothful air lulled by its wet lands and soaking greenery steeped in mud.

Carriages and carts – some dragged by hands, some pulled along by the might of beasts – dragged along the road; often overturning in the ever-present knee-deep, muddied and rain-washed roads. Once stuck, one had to wait for hours awaiting some help of some kind to run down and push the wheels out of these tricky pits of unpaved roads.

If one happens to meet with more unfortunate circumstances, the wheels might completely come off its axles in the exertion of vehement motion and be of no further use. The master would then await draped in his fur, sometime peeking through the carriages now wet bamboo screens and curtain, sometime cursing at the weather in an almost indecipherable tone, while seeking some warmth from his hand-held brazier inside the carriage; knowing all too well that he was hopelessly waiting hours before any help could arrive in any form.

“Ha, what a waste – as if heaven mandates that my head smudges in mud.” The Second young master whispered to the wind, looking at the far-off road which led to Jinghai town gate.

Often paper umbrellas could be seen floating in their colorful apparels from one end of the alley to another, but seldom out from the town gate, or even in suburbs. Festive reds, cheerful yellows and some supporting imitations of famous paintings - the umbrellas floated around like hundreds of flowers blooming in spring. From one shopfront, hopping to another – hoping to remain as un-wet as humanly possible in such a cumbersome weather – till the eaves of all visible shop fronts were filled with random strangers seeking refuge or running away in haste. Few bare-bodied slaves too could be spotted, as they ran along these very paths rushing to help their master bear the weight of the carriage wheels stuck inside mud while he screamed his lungs out with anger.

“A carriage couldn’t be arranged? Then why did you rush here without doing anything? Don’t tell me the house has every carriage occupied – what did you say? Every one of them is engaged? Ha! Taking me as a fool…” and thus his voice echoed in the valleys, losing its shrill timbre as it reached farther and farther down the south.

In the suburbs of the town, down south, there it was the worst hit. The continuous rain of three weeks, unsparing of the day or night had seeped into fields stretching all around the valley. A gloom had settled down, cradled in the valley's silence and resonating in its melancholic slumber. As far as the eyes could see, now the land appeared as a sea overarching the heavens. It stretched on and on, farther till it melted away down into the opposite range of bluish gray Mysterious mountains far into the southern horizon.

Forest and foliage, fresh and lush green forked sparingly. The rain had washed off their dusty paleness and once again filled them with choicest of hues; the landscape had regained its mesmerizing colors. The blues of mountains were stark and sharply contrasted with the rolling white mist, while the sea-like fields were softer and reflecting, like a finely cut piece of an enamoring mirror – capturing a piece of the moving heaven above in its breast. And when a soft shower fell over it creating round ripples…an unforgettable image was etched for some eyes. 

The greens could be said to have become a bit greener and the town livelier by the time the Second young master and his servants found their way out of the suburbs and rushed back into the town gate. Nearby stood a crowded pathway welcoming the arrivals of guests and Wei jia’s most gracious servants bouncing on their eager feet. 

Despite the unfortunate weather, the roads were getting busier; even the small river outlet running through the middle of the town – although flooded with muddied water and red of the washed down mountain soil – was still getting busier with hoards of flower sellers, vegetable sellers all with their baskets of freshly picked bunches of water-lilies and lotuses, and leafy greens sitting atop their boats haggling with customers. 

Harkening of hawkers had pitched up a notch, while shaded mansions of nobles began to be filled up with a similar kind of chattering servants abound doing their morning preparations before any of the masters were to awaken. Rows after rows of maids and servants were filing here and there in a set rhythm, as if some hand was pulling their string from above, guiding them, restricting their paces, restraining their actions, keeping anyone from sticking out of tune. The rhythm itself was fine, but a strange artificiality dawned upon their features.

“No, no, no! Oh heavens! Hong Tao! Tao’er look at your steps, will you? Look at the time! Look at what you have done! The mistress has been waiting for so long in the main hall now, her feet have gone cold. There have been no words for so long, no messages have been received from the Second young master. Would you care to rush out and look for Young Master and see where he is now? Why hasn’t he come home yet? Everyone else is worried, but you. No, run for heaven’s sake! The young master hasn’t reached the house – no doubt the carriage might have broken off near the town-gate again – look at this rain, it doesn’t intend to stop, does it? The soup will be cold by that time…”

A silent pebble into the still waters.

Still, like a timbre broken off in a jerk and rescinding in the same manner, a yellow tailed warbler’s song broke upon the magnolia branch drooping under the shower. It wasn’t the flowering season, yet its leaves shook with passion of quenched thirst; the day was mellow and the tune was heartening. Where did it break off to? It was a wonder…

A little splatter of feet rushing back and forth and then silence lingered in the vacant courtyard. Then, files of maids dressed in fine silks of modest cut, went to east and to the west, to north and to south, and to each direction on their bidding. The rhythm had dawned upon them once more, all the more absorbed and grievous.

Soon the houses of nobles and commoners alike burst out with vigorous rushing; the dawn had passed and noon approached fast. In stark contrast, the gloomy sky and muddied path sketched a wretched picture. The eaves of the roofs over many houses dripped with murky dark water-droplets, rolling down in sheets of silvery sparkling train, down the stoned marbled floors of the courtyards. A solemn picture yet equally mesmerizing in its unsettling uncanniness. A quiet descends and a shout emerges suddenly as if one has embroiled another in its existence, unceasingly mellow in its likeness.

Through the shade of the free-floating curtains, sliding off the canopy of her bed, Wei Zhiruo lamented for a while, still lying on her aching back. Her mind though, rushing past the encompassing walls escaping all spatial fastenings put on her by those courtyard walls and forted manor, the town’s walls and its mighty looking gates, its overbearing towers - some even now full of traces of ancient wars, scratches and mortified wounds passed down through hands of great men and mighty warriors – rose up, flew high and looked down. She took in all this rushing vigor of the small town, its bitterness and sweetness, its multifaceted chaos and liveliness, she felt its taste linger on her tongue and felt its strain enduring over her ears. For a moment she ceased to be, but a speck of floating dust roaming over a halo of the past, present and future all melting in a single pot. A shadow engulfed her senses and then, as if chidding her willfulness her aching soul snatched her back. It was just, but in a moment.

The figure on the bed shook with vexation; her breath coming out in clear, audible wheezings. Her pale face starkly contrasted with the black free-floating strands of her smooth long hair, while her poise – leaning back on the wooden headboard, cushioned in cloud like pillows was quite easily distinguished against the almost paranoid staleness present in her eyes. Nothing betrayed her storm like emotions raging in her blood. But it was only natural - she thought. 

Flickering in the early morning sunlight, the dust floated around stuck in a grave prayer. The windows were parted open unceremoniously, without taking into account the health of the occupant, she observed. In fact, it made it all the more felt, those injuries – for indeed the ache from chilly winds aroused her bodily instincts, making her battered state of health or pangs in her own flesh, feel like a silent blow.

The windows in question, now slowly let in a faint drizzle and turbid smell of broken soil and crushed leaves; the faintly nostalgic smell tickled into her nose. The chill lingered over her pale skin, burning against her dull eyes. Dull, shadow less, mirthless, unapologetically apathetic.

She felt it. She knew it too. This was not the place she knew of. This room, this boudoir.

Somewhere in its corner lay a delicate piece of embroidered work, arranged with piles of colored threads, a wooden frame still mounted with a piece of fabric. An unfinished embroidered work. Pearl beads hanging around her bed enclosed the view along with the parted muslin curtains, soft and embroidered with silvery totems of birds and auspicious clouds. It rose with the blowing wind.

By the window was the latticed wooden screen, crafted to section the room into chambers, hiding the bed from the direct view of the main door opening into the western walls. Crafted with luxurious rosewood, other latticed window screens were parted open letting in cold air. The room itself was full of a unique taste of incoherent extravagance and unpretentious barrenness, perhaps even a trace of simplicity in its similitude.

Not like her small palace at all. Not even her mother’s extravagant Jade palace or anywhere she was familiar with. It wasn’t luxurious enough. Bright enough. Familiar enough…And the smell that wafted off from its nooks and crannies: it held a strange mellowness lingering over everything, something the hard history of the imperial power could never sustain in its possession. Its mighty walls were always bare of human touch, but this place, this chamber was altogether brimming with human weaknesses.

‘No, it’s not my palace,’ Wei Zhiruo concluded as she lay languidly resting amongst soft pillows.

It was unkempt as well. As if for a while, and quite recently too, it had been raided, emptied and abandoned. Many things appeared to be missing. Shards of broken jars were left strewn over the floor. Someone had raided the room, taken things and left it in disarray all too blatantly.

The charms strung to the pearl strings suddenly burst into a tune, recapturing her wandering senses.

Wei Zhiruo closed her eyes and lulled the deep ache in her heart to sleep. In fact, she knew something was off about the whole thing. The biggest giveaway had always been her body. Pale, small in girth, short and weak; she must be approaching seven but still not there – yes, she was young, a human child again.